


The Gate's Gift

by Laylah



Category: Infinite Undiscovery
Genre: First Time, Happy Ending, Loyalty, M/M, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In my certainty that our mission was the only thing that mattered, I...dismissed nearly everything else that was happening around me." He takes a deep breath. "Your devotion, both to the Force and to me, deserved --"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gate's Gift

"If we can't find a way to follow him," Eugene starts, when the area is clear of dune harpies finally.

"Shut up," Edward growls. If he lets himself think about that he'll be sick. Bad enough for it to happen once, but now -- when they didn't even need to come _through_ this gate, when this place is so unnatural, strange red light over a desert almost identical to Fayel's -- if he loses Capell, too, unable to save the person who matters most for a second time....

He searches the platform again, looking for some key, some inscription, something Capell could have triggered to make it take him and nobody else. Damn whatever god it was that created this place.

"Edward!" Michelle calls, panicky, as a shadow sweeps over the sand. "More of them!"

"We fight them off," Edward commands, unslinging his Karathos Blade. "Hold your ground!"

The harpies dive, screeching, and it's almost second nature by now to parry the flash of their claws as he seeks an opening to attack. Michelle still sounds miserable as she casts, her voice shaking, but her spells erupt between the harpies' beating wings all the same, and Eugene never loses his composure as he drives the earth itself to attack their foes. They fell the flock quickly enough, and Eugene murmurs a prayer of healing as the last of the harpies collapses to the sand.

"You guys have gotten pretty good," a voice says from behind them.

Edward spins, scarcely daring to believe it. "Capell!"

It seems to be really him -- and he's not alone. He has another man with him, a man his size, in his armor, slumped against his side. "Give me a hand?" he says. "He's kind of heavy."

"How," Edward says, as he starts toward them across the sand.

"Edward," Lord Sigmund says, raising his head. He smiles, and Edward's steps falter from sheer surprise. "It's good to see you again."

"M-my lord," Edward says. His voice feels thick, caught in his throat.

Capell shifts uncomfortably. "Let's get out of here, okay?"

Edward nods, takes the last two steps to offer his shoulder. Lord Sigmund feels solid, warm, _real_. This is impossible, but he cannot bring himself to protest.

They retrace their steps quickly, finding the transporter, climbing the twisting dungeon stairs -- Graad Prison, Capell said, and Edward has no reason to doubt him -- to the exit. The drogo warriors on patrol are no match for them, after all the practice they've had. At the exit, Eugene motions for the three of them to go first. There's something soft in his eyes as he does it, and Edward would be angry if he weren't so busy being -- being --

The icy rush of magic closes around them, transporting them back from the strangeness inside the gate to the ordinary chill of Kolton.

"We should get back to the inn," Capell says, when they've caught their breath. "And, um, figure out what we're doing now."

Lord Sigmund nods. Edward bites back the protest as he pulls away. "Thank you," Lord Sigmund says. The gentleness in his voice when he speaks to Capell still twists something in Edward's gut, but it's more tolerable now. "I fear I've missed much."

They regroup at the inn with everyone else, and Edward spends more time than he'd like with his hands clenched at his sides, angry at the newcomers for not _understanding_ how important Lord Sigmund is, at Michelle for fawning over him, at Balbagan for disrespecting him. When he realizes he's angry at even at Touma -- for being glad to see his old friend alive -- he decides he should leave, at least for a little while.

Even at midday, Kolton isn't warm; the sunlight feels thin and distant here, always struggling to pierce a veil of high, gray clouds. The chill helps to clear Edward's head, to calm him. He finds his way down to the empty fountain near the harbor; it's familiar enough, after all the times he's come here. He should be -- he _is_ glad that Lord Sigmund is back. He spent so long wishing it were possible, eaten alive by the pain of knowing it wasn't. And now --

He owes Capell a second time, doesn't he? First for saving his life when he lost control of his power, and now for finding Lord Sigmund in that realm of shadows and bringing him safely home. It's a second chance he should never have gotten.

It's a chance he has no idea what to do with.

By the time he grows weary, and cold enough to want to return to the inn, the chaos has mostly died down and the party has dispersed. Edward finds Touma in the front room of the inn, without his shadow for once. "How is he?" he asks.

"Doing well," Touma says. He smiles, more warmly than Edward is accustomed to. "You care deeply for Sigmund, do you not? You should go to see him."

There is nothing crude in the suggestion, but Edward's face heats all the same. "I will," he says. "Thank you."

Lord Sigmund's room is upstairs, around the corner; the same room that they gave Edward, when he was...here the first time. His glyphs thrum against his skin, responding to his discomfort. He can think of better places for a reunion.

But the chance for any reunion at all is better than he had any right to expect. He knocks at the door.

"Come in," Lord Sigmund calls.

Edward opens the door. Lord Sigmund stands by the window, looking out into the city. He has removed his plate armor, his headdress, and without them his resemblance to Capell is even more striking. Yet there are differences, even now; he stands with a stillness that Capell never manages, and there is a gravity to his expression that is his alone. "My lord," Edward says.

Lord Sigmund shakes his head. "There is no need for that," he says gently. "I've left behind any right to titles."

"You are still the Liberator," Edward answers.

"Capell is wearing that name just fine," Lord Sigmund says. He smiles, and there is a quietness to it that makes him look older. "I am left only with the dubious honor of being two different dead heroes."

"Don't say that," Edward protests. "You have -- you are -- far more than that."

"To you, at least," Lord Sigmund says.

Edward takes a step closer to him almost involuntarily. "Not only to me," he insists, but the patience, the kindness in Lord Sigmund's face undoes him. "Maybe especially to me."

Lord Sigmund steps away from the window, toward Edward. "That I would believe," he says. "I...have had time, on the other side of the Gate, to reflect on the things I should have done differently. The ways that I failed the people who are important to me."

"My lord," Edward says, "you never --"

"Please," Lord Sigmund interrupts, "call me by name." He does not wait for Edward's answer, but goes on: "In my certainty that our mission was the only thing that mattered, I...dismissed nearly everything else that was happening around me." He takes a deep breath. "Your devotion, both to the Force and to me, deserved --"

"Don't," Edward says. He has made his peace with his desires, as best he knows how; he doesn't need Sigmund to tell him that he can't have what he wants. "It's all right."

Sigmund hesitates, a thing Edward thinks he may never have seen before. "Am I already too late? Have you moved on?"

For a moment this conversation itself is as terrifying as the day they first met; Edward feels as though he cannot breathe. "Never," he manages to say, through the sudden tightness in his throat. "You will always be --" but Sigmund has said he doesn't want to be anyone's lord, and the other ways Edward could end that sentence are too much, even now. "I am not so fickle as that," he says instead.

"Then allow me to do what I should have done months ago," Sigmund says, and takes the step that closes the last of the distance between them. He reaches up, curls one hand around Edward's nape, and pulls Edward down for a kiss.

His skin is chilled from the window, but when his lips part, his mouth is so warm. It is like no kiss Edward has had before; Sigmund is not cruel, not truly aggressive, but he is relentless, demanding, taking Edward's mouth as though he simply claims what is his by right. Edward holds on tight to him, kissing back, sucking on Sigmund's tongue. He wants to go to his knees, offer his mouth, but when he pulls back from the kiss Sigmund reaches for his belt.

"Let me see you," Sigmund says.

"Yes," Edward says, and swallows the _my lord_ that would follow. He steps back, strips off gloves, tunic, mail, undershirt -- and Sigmund is watching him, but not only watching; he's stripping off his borrowed clothes as well. His time inside the Gate seems not to have changed him bodily at all -- he still has the spare, sleek muscle that marks him as a swordsman, and the lunaglyph he received in Burguss sweeps bold lines across his chest. It's the same faint blue as Edward's first, the one twining up his right arm, and it seems to ripple as Sigmund moves.

Moves toward him, Veros' mercy, and Edward finds himself short of breath as Sigmund pulls him close again. He finds the presence of mind to lean down without further prompting for another kiss, dizzy with the smooth warmth of Sigmund's skin against his. Sigmund kisses back, alternately teasing and rough, while his hands unlace Edward's trousers and reach inside. Edward cannot swallow the moan when Sigmund takes hold of his cock.

"Please," Edward says; it's too much. There's no way he'll last long with Sigmund touching him. "Let me --" He fumbles with the knot of Sigmund's woven belt.

"Of course," Sigmund says, his voice hoarse and low. They strip each other out of the last of their clothes, and when Sigmund pushes him back toward the bed Edward goes willingly. Sigmund stretches out above him, warm and solid, eyes bright as copper when he meets Edward's gaze and asks, "Will you give yourself to me?"

"Yes," Edward says, the word sticking rough-edged in his throat. In every way but this one, he already _has_ given himself, though he still can't quite say so.

Sigmund's hands are sure and steady, preparing him; Edward knew what to expect in the abstract, but hadn't realized it would feel like this, vulnerable and sensitive, Sigmund's slicked fingers touching him in places no-one ever has. His breath feels ragged in his throat, the intimacy of the gesture more than enough to make up for the strangeness of the sensation.

"Now?" Sigmund asks, his voice nearly as roughened with need as Edward's own.

Edward nods. "I'm yours," he says.

Sigmund shifts above him, presses forward, presses _in_ \-- the stretch burns, but Edward welcomes it, takes Sigmund by the hips to pull him closer, deeper. Words fail him -- both of them -- and he trusts to his actions to speak for him, as he holds tight, as he rocks up in to Sigmund's slow thrusts. It's almost too much to feel, raw and open, but it's what he wants, little discomforts and all -- it's real, vivid, the press and heaviness of Sigmund's cock inside him, the wet heat of Sigmund's mouth against his collarbone. Edward moans, burying his face in Sigmund's hair, trembling with the sensation each time Sigmund's thrusts drive him forward enough for Edward's cock to brush the flat of his stomach. A little more of that would be enough to --

And Sigmund slides a hand between them before Edward can finish the thought, takes Edward's cock in a rough, loose grip so that the way they move together provides all the friction he could ask for. Edward's pulse hammers in his veins, and his glyphs wake to shivering bright sparks of need. He holds Sigmund tight between his thighs, breath stuttering as the tension becomes unbearable and then _breaks_, tension washing over him like a blessing.

It draws a noise from Sigmund's throat, low and lost, hungry; his strokes slow but don't stop, and Edward shivers through them. "Close," Sigmund breathes. "Can you give me just a little more?"

"Anything," Edward says. His voice cracks, and he says it again. "Anything, Sigmund, please."

"Yes," Sigmund answers, "like that," and pushes harder, taking Edward roughly now -- finally truly selfish, and it's breathtaking to feel, to be the focus of that need. Edward meets those demanding thrusts as best he can, refusing to let it be too much; he can hold out for this, can _give_ this to Sigmund -- can last, can offer himself until Sigmund does at last shudder still above him, inside him.

The chill of Kolton is all but gone, chased off by the heat trapped between them. Their skin sticks together with sweat; the joints in Edward's hips ache from the awkward position. He's smiling anyway, a broad, giddy smile that he doesn't think he could help if he tried. Sigmund shifts his weight, pulling back, his cock sliding free. He's smiling too, warm and kind.

"Thank you," he says, as he lowers himself to the mattress and they negotiate the awkward tangle of limbs until they can find a way to get comfortable. "I...hope I have lived up to your expectations."

Edward laughs softly, rolling onto his side to drape an arm over Sigmund. The glyph in his hand pulses once as he touches the one on Sigmund's chest, but it's brief, and settles again quickly. "You've -- you've far surpassed them," he says. His heart feels light. "In this, as in so many things."

They will finish their business with Leonid, and cut the last of the chains. They will make this world right. And this time, Edward will not waste his chance.


End file.
